A/N - I know I haven't written anything in a very long time, and I promise I will get Innocent going again. I apologize for the extremely long break. Anyways I've been toying with this idea for a couple months now, ever since I read Good Omens, but I had writer's block for what felt like eternity, so this has been my first chance to do anything with it. Hope you enjoy it. Oh yeah, and check the text for random numbers in brackets. Those are footnotes (Pratchett-style, of course), and they are all found at the bottom of this fic. Thanks!
Disclaimer - I don't own it. Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman do. I am depressed....
The Judgment
This was not good.
The chamber was nowhere, and everywhere - and exactly in between Heaven and Hell (1). Those on trial noted with some cynicism that, even here, in this supposedly neutral ground, nobody had been able to resist an attempt to glorify their forces. Walls and ceiling were a riot of large, life-like, larger-than-lifelike murals representing the glorious ranks of Heaven and Hell and various glorious minions, all marching towards glorious victory or glorious defeat. The whole effect was...glorious.
On the right side were the angels, both the ones painted upon the walls and the ones who had come to witness the trial. On the left were the demons. Where they met, in the middle of the front and back walls, a pitched battle was occurring. Not amongst the real supernatural beings, however. They were very aware of the gravity of the situation, and were behaving themselves accordingly. They were restraining themselves to murderous glares and the occasional elbow.
And the gravity in the room was indeed very high. Everyone, without exception, knows what purpose gravity serves - it makes things fall down. Very shortly, they knew, someone - or someones - would have to take a fall. It was only a matter of time. And everyone, without exception, knew without a doubt who would be taking the fall. It was obvious.
The gravity was concentrated on two figures in the centre of the room. The figure with the intelligent, gentle sort of face and clothed like an English gentleman, was very, very nervous, and for good reason. He was an angel - a Principality, for Go - for crying out loud! If he took the fall now, (and everyone knew he would), he would - well - Fall, naturally, all the way down to the very bottom of the ranks of the lowliest demons. Perhaps it was his fault. Perhaps it wasn't. Aziraphale only knew that it wasn't fair that he should be punished when most of the damage hadn't even been caused by him. He had never felt so trapped in his whole life. He glanced over at his partner-in-crime.
The demon with the shades and the black clothing reminiscent of a Mafia man was mostly calm in comparison. This was mostly because he had done all of his panicking several minutes earlier, when Aziraphale had been the calm one, reassuring him that it was almost certainly all part of God's ineffable plan, so why worry? It would all turn out in the end. (2) Now it was Aziraphale who was not so sure of himself, although he suspected that Crowley's calm was probably only the cover for the deep, fatalistic gloom that had sunk in the moment he had stopped panicking.
This was not good at all.
They'd just brought in Truth and Justice, avatars of their respective disciplines, robed in grey, faces like stone masks. Truth looked wasted and ill. So did Justice. (5)
The Metatron glided down from a blue hole in the ceiling. Beelzebub rose up from a bubbling pool of magma that had formed suddenly in the floor.
Justice looked coolly and critically at the defendents. A small whimper escaped Aziraphale's throat. Crowley just stared at his feet.
And the trial began.
"Read forth the accusations," said Justice.
"These two meddled with the desires of God and the outcome of the ineffable plan!" said the Metatron angrily.
"Szzay it szztraight," growled Beelzebub. "They buggered up the Apocalypse. On purpozzze."
"They conspired with the Antichrist and stood in the path of all that we have worked towards for millenia. They may have resided upon Earth since the Start, but demon and angel kind both have loyalties to their own sides that should take precedence over all other loyalties. They failed to remember this. We -" indicating Beelzebub and himself - "have both received far from satisfactory reports from agents about our respective minions." The Metatron put on his holier-than-thou expression. "We are all exceedingly disappointed in the defendents."
Aziraphale looked sheepish. (6)
"I would have expected this behaviour from a mere demon, of course, but from our own divine ranks -"
Crowley told the Voice of God to go do something extremely crude to himself.
"-With all due respect, Mister Metatron, sir," Aziraphale put in hurriedly, elbowing Crowley hard and reproachfully as his face blossomed with colour.
"You see?" The Metatron scowled at Crowley, who scowled right back. "We cannot even gain their respect for such a small thing as preserving polite relations in the courtroom. The defendents have become nearly human - child-like in comparison to Heaven's infinite wisdom."
"Or Hell'zzzz infinitezzz trickzzz."
"They are a disgrace to our immortal kind."
"They muzzt be puniszzhed. I have zzzome zzzzuggezztionzzz," offered Beelzebub.
Justice shook her head. "Let the defendents speak."
Truth approached angel and demon. "What have you to say?"
Aziraphale could feel the effects of the avatar's aura working on him. He'd never even told a lie - well, maybe a few small white lies - well, OK, one or two - well, no earthshattering lies, at least - in his life, but Truth was making him face it all anyways. "We didn't mean to," he said shakily.
Beside him, Crowley snorted in disgust.
"I mean, yes, we did mean to. It - it seemed such a waste for the world to just - well - end. So much potential, so many innocent lives -"
"It was God's will!" interrupted the Metatron wrathfully.
Justice raised a hand. "I believe I said, let the defendents speak. Go on, angel."
"And - well - no one knows what the ineffable plan really is, right? Right? Well...maybe it was meant to be this way all along. Who can say for certain what God is really planning?"
"Thou hazz zzzaid thizz all before," grumbled Beelzebub.
"Nice going," muttered Crowley.
"Let's see you do better," hissed Aziraphale.
"You, zzzerpent. Why didst thou betray thy kind?" demanded the great demon.
Crowley shrugged, non-commitally. He had been caught off-guard.
"Why hast thou conzzpired with thy enemy, Crowzzzley?"
Crowley shrugged again. "It seemed like a good idea at the time." He too could feel the creeping effects of Truth's stare, but it was weakened to some extent by his sunglasses, for which he was very thankful. He wasn't sure how long he would last without them, and he wasn't the least bit interested in finding out.
Hastur had informed him nastily before the trial that any decent demon, faced with the stare of undiluted Truth, would proceed to die a death far more painful than death by holy water. Which happened to be far more painfully painful pain than Crowley was, personally, willing to experience. (7) Not that he believed Hastur, of course...but better safe than sorry, right?
"Take away the dark glazz piecezzz from thy eyezz whilst thou art szzzpeaking to me!" commanded Beelzebub.
"Ngk," said Crowley.
"Now," said the Voice of Satan, inflecting his voice in such a way that it hurt like a hot blade being inserted in one's ears, but only if the unfortunate listener had been standing outside of the chamber. It was worse inside.
Shakily, Crowley removed his sunglasses. His eyes were crossed. "Glasses. Yeah. Right on it." His eyes uncrossed again, and he studiously avoided looking at Truth. His hands were trembling.
"Aziraphale, what are your reasons for conspiring with your enemy?" said the Metatron.
Aziraphale struggled with his conscience for several long moments. If he spilled the beans now he would betray one of the only creatures he could call a friend, and it would make it worse for both of them. But Truth was making it hard for him to lie, even to himself. He couldn't tell a lie, because even if he could manage it, everyone would know it anyways. So he told the truth.
"It was more convenient than fighting each other, Lord Metatron," he said quietly. "When there is only one other face consistently around for over four thousand years, it becomes easier to cooperate than to continue a pointless feud anyways."
Crowley groaned.
"You think that the battle between Heaven and Hell is pointless?" The Metatron said softly, after a long, dangerous pause. "It is our entire point of being! Why else should the Apocalypse be planned?"
Aziraphale sighed. It always came back to this, of course. We love Earth. It's interesting. Yes, that's all very well, but what about the Apocalypse? But humans have just figured out space travel, and loads of other marvelous things! Yes, of course, but the Apocalypse must happen.
It had been a lost cause from the start. Aziraphale should have seen it, but he hadn't wanted to. He doubted now that the ineffable plan involved a sudden miracle for either of them. Aziraphale stayed silent.
"Anzzzwer," Beelzebub commanded. "Thou tried to szztand against Himself, our Lord Satan. Thou defied the Great Powerszzz' emizzariezz. Thou wert going to kill the Antichrist. What hazz thou to szzay for thyself?"
"Meep," said Aziraphale.
"Meep." The Metatron was disgusted, and showing it. "That's all you can say?"
"All that you would understand, Sparky," said Crowley under his breath.
There was a long pause. Justice said, "Is there any other evidence forthcoming from the angel?"
Aziraphale shook his head vigourously.
"Crowzzzley!" Beelzebub's harsh, buzzing voice made the demon snap to attention. He'd started to daydream in the interval between questions. (8)
"Wha...? Oh. Right. Heh...."
"Thou has dizzzobeyed! Izz thizz not zzzo?"
"Disobeyed. Yeah," he muttered, looking embarrassed.
"Thou knowzz thy duty!"
"Duty. Yeah..."
"Zzzo, tell uzz the truth, Crowzzley. Give uzz a szztraight anszzwer. Why didst thou do it?"
Crowley said nothing, toying with his sunglasses. He looked around, trying to think of something to say....
...and looked straight at Truth.
Aziraphale stared at his friend in shock and horror. "What's wrong with him? Why won't he stop screaming?"
"He is being confronted with all the lies and deceits he has ever had a hand in throughout his life," replied Truth solemnly.
"Well, that doesn't sound -"
"At once," added Truth.
Aziraphale swallowed. "Oh dear."
"Can you give the defendents their judgment when the demon stops twitching?" the Metatron asked Justice. "I have a meeting with St. Peter at three."
The woman nodded. "Both sides have been presented; a decision must now be reached. I believe I have learned enough to judge all with equality."
Crowley continued to twitch and shudder in the grips of unimaginable horrors.(9)
.8.
Crowley opened his eyes at last, relieved to see nothing but a normal, white ceiling above him, and not the monstrosity that qualified as a ceiling in the Hall of Judgment only because all the other ceilings were too scared to approach it.
"You're awake." Aziraphale sounded far more weary and depressed than pleased by this turn of events. "Welcom back to the land of the living."
Crowley scrambled to his feet. "Where the hell are we?" It looked like...yes, it looked very much like...Aziraphale's bookshop. But hadn't they just been in the Hall of Judgment only moments ago? He said as much to the angel.
"Yes, well, there is the matter of...your collapse," Aziraphale said uncomfortably. "You were oblivious to everything for....a long time."
"How long?"
"Justice grew tired of waiting and sentenced us about an hour later."
"Shit!"
Aziraphale gave him a disapproving look. "It is not as bad as one might think, Crowley."
"Yeah? Prove it."
"It will give us an entirely new way of experiencing the world. And the Metatron and Beelzebub were demoted for various charges. It really isn't so bad."
"Whatever you're babbling about, you sound like you're trying to convince yourself. What is it?"
He hesitated. "Now, dear boy, please, do not get angry..."
"Out with it, angel, or I will get angry. What have they done to us?"
Aziraphale couldn't meet his eyes. "We're human."
"What?"
"I said we're human."
"What?!" Crowley didn't believe it. He couldn't believe it. It was impossible. But he knew, deep inside, that it was the truth.
Not immortal any more? One kick at the cat, and then he bit the dust for good, to spend all eternity at the mercy of all Hell, even the imps? Not immortal any more? He couldn't even get pissed out of his skull in an effort to forget it without having to deal with a damn hangover afterwards. He'd have to buy petrol. And actually reserve a table in restaurants. And work for a goddamn living.
One thought occupied his mind, then proceeded to control his mouth. "It's not fair!"
"It's justice," Aziraphale reminded him.
"We're human," Crowley repeated, his voice almost a hiss (10).
"Yes."
"Right now? No parole? No orientation day? No anything? Just...mortal, now?"
"Yes." Aziraphale managed a weak smile. "I'm sorry, dear boy."
"Mortal," Crowley growled. Aziraphale was right. He was noticing several things about himself that were definitely out of place with his immortal self. One, he sounded like a bloody teakettle when he hissed. Two, he kept blinking. Three, he didn't have a clue where his sunglasses had gone, and Four, when he tried to summon a new pair, nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.
"Shit," he said again, helplessly.
"I know."
"What are we going to do?"
"I don't know."
"I have to live in my flat. Actually live. And pay taxes."
"I know."
"Taxes were invented to inconvenience other people. Not me. (11)"
"It won't hurt you to get a feel for how all your victims live."
Crowley tried another, angrier, hiss, and ended up choking on it. When he finished coughing, he said, "I know that already. I used to live in Hell, bless it! Do you think I don't know how bad it can get? I invented most of it, Aziraphale!"
"I apologize," he said. "That was thoughtless."
Crowley began to pace. He was desperately unhappy. "Did anyone say anything about any chance of redeeming ourselves? Any time at all?"
Aziraphale gave a short, bitter laugh. "Hardly likely, Crowley. We're stuck."
Crowley stopped pacing in front of the window and studied his reflection bitterly. His eyes were no longer slitted, nor yellow, but brown. Normal. Human. The sight of such an obvious reminder of his new mortality decided a thought that had been floating around his head ever since he had learned the horrible truth.
"Hell with it," he said suddenly, turning to face his friend. "Let's go get ourselves completely and utterly pissed, shall we?"
"You know," Aziraphale said thoughtfully, "that begins to sound like a good idea."
.1 month later.
Aziraphale was stiting waiting for him, sipping a cup of tea. Crowley paused, a little shocked. The (former) angel had visibly lost weight. He looked tired and worn, and Crowley thought he detected more lines on his friend's face than he had previously noticed. Living as a human, he thought with a sigh, took it out of everyone. Even (former) immortals. He shook his head clear of the thought and strode forward to drop himself into the seat opposite Aziraphale.
"How goes it?" he asked.
Aziraphale looked up, managed a smile. "All right."
"You look beat."
"I keep forgetting that I need to sleep."
Crowley grimaced, and decided not to follow that path any farther. The idea of forgetting to sleep... "How's business? Still at the bookshop?"
"Yes...and no....I'm selling it."
"What? Why?"
"Too much work, not enough profits. I do hate to let it go, but one must pay the bills, mustn't one?"
"And remember to eat, too, right?" Crowley could not resist putting in.
Aziraphale looked away. "What are you doing now, Crowley?"
The (former) demon gave a short laugh. "I'm a paper-pusher now. I work for some bloody stupid corporation and do bloody stupid paperwork all day." He looked with distaste at his clothes. "I knew there was always a reason I hated suits."
Aziraphale said nothing, merely sipped at his tea.
The waitress came, and Crowley ordered something to eat. When she was gone, he turned back to Aziraphale and looked at him earnestly. "Do you regret it? Stopping the Apocalypse?"
"No," Aziraphale said, firmly. He still believed that it had been the best thing, the right thing, to help save all those innocent lives. (12)
"I kind of miss the old crowd," Crowley said after a pause.
"I don't, really," said the (former) angel.
"How do humans stand it? Being so....normal?"
"They seem to get by." Aziraphale sipped at his tea again. "I dare say we'll learn to, with time."
Crowley raised an eyebrow, then a small smile flickered across his face. "All right. You're right. It could be worse, I suppose."
"Yes." Aziraphale raised his teacup. "A toast? To friends. To mortality. It's not so bad."
"I guess I can drink to that," said Crowley, and they both proceeded to do so.
(1) We know it's exact because we forced a team of immortal beings to measure it. We like things to be ACCCURATE.
(2) Presuming of course that the ineffable plan is not just a gigantic practical joke that will end in the destruction of all things by a giant plastic snowman. (3)
(3) Or a plague of idiotically grinning purple dinosaurs. (4)
(4) It's debatable which is more likely. Right now learned scholars are betting on the plague of purple dinosaurs.
(5) If more people were interested in telling the truth, and in obtaining justice, they would likely have looked more like jolly, overweight, motherly figures, the kind that tell their children not to tell lies and to play nicely or Ma would wallop them with her rolling pin.
(6) Not that he actually sprouted wool, of course.
(7) Painfully painful pain was perfectly fine by Crowley...as long as it was someone else experiencing it. Not him.
(8) Daydreaming that this was all a very bad alcohol-induced but real, actual, dream, and that he'd wake up in a few minutes with his very first hangover. Anything was better than here.
(9) As opposed to imaginable horrors, such as the atomic bomb, the electric chair, taxes, and Britney Spears.
(10) But not quite. He didn't sound right any more. In fact, he sounded more like a teakettle than anything.
(11) This was not true. Taxes were invented to inconveniencing everyone, up to and including former supernatural beings. Taxes do not make any distinctions. Taxes are like that.
(12) And the not-so-innocent lives too, by inference, although we're not sure if that was only a byproduct or what, so let's just think charitable thoughts about him, shall we?